


show me how to be yours

by Living_On_My_Own



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Freddie needs a bit of love, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Roger is there for that, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29827347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_On_My_Own/pseuds/Living_On_My_Own
Summary: “Come on, look at yourself, you’re a mess.”'And you’re just a sad and lonely man who will never deserve me.'Thinking back on it, Freddie wishes he’d found the right words at the right moment, that he’d said those words and believed them.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Original Male Character(s), Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

_ “Do you really believe he doesn’t think you’re a freak?” _

  
  
  


Freddie tries to unlock the door of the flat as quietly as possible, carefully not to wake Roger, who’s probably sleeping on the couch in front of the telly, like he always does. He always gets annoyed when it happens. Besides, Freddie wouldn’t want him to see the dry streaks of black kohl on his cheeks. He’s never been good with lying about his feelings, especially with Roger. He somehow always ends up making him spit out the truth. But now it’s different, and Freddie can’t afford to have to tell Roger. Not about this, he can’t talk to him about things like that. At least not if he wants to keep Roger as his best friend. 

Unfortunately, Roger’s wide awake when he opens the door, and he barely gets a chance to rub raw his cheeks before Roger sees him and walks towards him. 

“Where have you been at this hour, young man?” Roger asks, he almost sounds serious, like he’s actually scolding Freddie for arriving home late. 

“I’m older than you,” Freddie answers, a smirk at the corner of his lips, though his eyes speak of sadness. He feels slightly better than before, with Roger’s presence near him, it makes some of his worries fade away, slightly. 

“Whatever, just remove your bloody coat and come watch tv with me.” 

So Freddie removes his fur coat slowly, it’s all wet now, the rain always makes it disgusting. Why did he ever decide to live in England? Oh yeah, he didn’t. He struggles miserably for a little while to remove his high heeled boots and sighs in relief when they’re finally off his feet. He eventually throws himself on the couch, much to Roger’s protests as he almost falls off himself, and tries to concentrate on whatever is going on on the tv. It’s hard to, because he cried maximum ten minutes ago and because he can’t shake the anxiety of being close to Roger. They’re not that close, probably four feet away from each other, but Freddie feels detached. He’d like it if Roger could hold him close, just like they used to do before. But it’s different now, Roger knows what Freddie’s been doing, he knows the reason for all the  _ darling’s  _ and  _ dear’s _ , for talking with a limp wrist, for the discomfort each time they talked about girls, about girlfriends, hookups. Roger can’t possibly want him close after that. 

“Freddie, what are you waiting for?” Roger asks, seeming incredulous.

Freddie turns his head quickly to look at him and sees Roger’s wide opened arms. He feels like tearing up at the sight. So, slowly, tensely, he approaches Roger, just to lay in his arms. He knows this isn’t something best friends should do, that Roger’s being kind with him, because he knows Freddie can’t bear feeling lonely, that he loves contact. 

“What would you do without me?” Roger asks, though he’s clearly not truly asking. 

“I would die, Roger,” Freddie answers. He says it as a joke, but somehow it feels accurate, he’d probably die without Roger. 

He feels even more anxious in the crook of Roger’s arm, but he still snuggles up there when Roger laughs. They’re not together and yet they’re acting as they are, Roger’s probably uncomfortable. “Don’t you—“

Freddie tries to talk, but he wouldn’t be able to bear the answer of what he wants to ask Roger, so he cuts himself and falls to silence. It's always been better this way.

“What?” 

Roger’s too curious for his own good, and Freddie curses himself for not thinking before starting to talk. Now, Roger won’t want to let it go. He never does. 

“Nevermind, it’s not important,” Freddie whispers, but Roger looks at him and Freddie  _ knows _ that look. It’s the type of look that means Roger wants an answer. And he keeps looking at him like that until Freddie cracks. He has to look away to talk, because he doesn’t want to see Roger’s face. 

“Don’t you— Don’t you think I’m a- a freak?”

“Why would I think that?”

He sounds sad, unable to believe that Freddie could think that. 

Roger clearly knows why, and Freddie really doesn’t want to say it, because even though he knows it’s the case, he doesn’t like saying it aloud- it makes him realise how wrong he’s acting, just how abnormal he is. 

“You know why,” Freddie again whispers, this time even more pained. 

He doesn’t like the idea of all the things Roger could think of him. Of everything he must think about when he looks at him, in his fur coat and high heeled boots, coming back from the dark of the night, when it’s so early in the morning that none of them should be awake. What he must think when he sees the love bites on his neck, no, just the  _ bites _ , the bites that he should have made, not received. What he must think when he sees Freddie cuddled up against him, desperately searching for a source of comfort, for a source of love. 

“You’re not a freak,” Roger declares, firmly. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

Freddie nods his head; he can feel tears forming, like they always do when someone’s nice to him. He often wishes he wouldn’t be so emotional, but he learns to deal with it, with the tightness of his throat and the infinite blinking of his eyes, just so his cheeks won’t get damp too. He hates crying, he hates the shame that comes with it, he hates people staring at him, as though he’s an animal at the zoo in its cage, as though he looks strange, just like tonight, when he came home. He felt humiliated, like every look people sent him was mocking: he could feel them laughing behind his back, he didn’t see it, didn’t hear it, but knew somehow, he’s always being laughed at. 

For a few minutes, it’s silence between them, the only noise coming from the tv; Freddie stares at the screen while trying to fight the blur in his eyes. He just wants to go to bed, to forget about every of his worries, to forget about this night he hoped would be pleasant but turned out to be horrible, like they always are when he goes to see his boyfriend. He wants to go to sleep and to never have to face life again. 

Roger unconsciously plays with Freddie’s fingers, which makes Freddie’s heart beat out of his chest, even if he’s desperately trying to stop it. Then his fingers get higher and higher slowly, only for them to slide under the sleeve of Freddie’s T-shirt, he pushes it away, exposing Freddie’s wrist. He’s always been fidgety, and Freddie’s hands are the only thing in reach. 

His face falls and he looks up at Freddie angrily, but there’s a note of sadness in his eyes.

“Did he do this?” 

They both know who he’s talking about. 

Roger had always been different than the others. He’d never looked twice at Freddie, never frowned at his actions. He never insulted him, never rolled his eyes. He made Freddie feel like he was normal, even for a short moment. He always made sure he was okay, even when it meant Roger himself wouldn’t be okay. Freddie can’t count the number of times he defended him in front of homophobes, even when it could get dangerous. He took care of Freddie like he was important, like he deserved to be taken care of. 

Roger’s watched Freddie for a long time: he looked at him when he came home, eyes red and cheeks redder; he looked from far away at the bites in Freddie’s neck, looking more painful than loving. He noticed the makeup Freddie sometimes put on his eye: it could never hide how swollen it was. He saw when Freddie came home more miserable than when he left home, when it always should be the contrary. 

“Why do you let him do this to you?” Roger asks, not nearly sounding as frustrated as he feels. He hates it, hates knowing what Freddie endures because he thinks that’s what he deserves. He hates to see purple and blue marks on Freddie’s skin when he deserves so much better, so much better than a bastard who never cared about him. 

“It’s fine, Roger,” Freddie answers, quietly. They’ve never talked about it before, but Freddie knows what Roger thinks of it. 

“No it’s not! You can’t—“ He’s yelling now, but he closes his mouth when Freddie looks down, like he thinks he’s angry at him, yelling because Freddie’s the one in the wrong. “You can’t accept everything he does to you. You’re not his toy, or something. You’re so much better than him.” He shakes Freddie’s shoulders until he looks up at him, from under his bangs, from under his lashes, like he’s trying to hide. 

Roger understands why when he sees tears in his eyes. He’s clearly fighting them off. “You’re so much better than him,” Roger repeats, softly. Freddie needs to know, to understand. 

He takes his face in his hands, looks at him, stares at him until he knows by heart every detail of his face. He notices for the first time the kohl that trailed all the way down his face. It’s only in certain spots: Roger knows Freddie’s been trying to hide it, he always does. He looks tired, like seeing his boyfriend has taken all the life out of him, like it’s made him exhausted in a second. He’s still beautiful, with his warm brown eyes, wet but still perfect, with his fine nose and his rosy lips. Roger never understands how someone could hurt him, could hurt him just after looking at him in the eyes. He’s too kind, too kind for all these assholes he had to deal with. 

Slowly, the space between their faces lessens, to the point where Roger can see the gold streaks in Freddie’s iris that can only be seen from so close. And then Roger realises how close they actually are, kissing distance, and decides to hug him instead of pull away. He wouldn’t want to seem rude or seem disgusted just after telling Freddie he doesn’t think of him as a freak. 

“Please don’t see him again, Freddie, he’s just— he’s horrible with you and you deserve so much better than a bastard like him.” He almost sounds desperate; he is, he cares about Freddie, so much more than he’s ever cared about anyone else. He hates the thought of Freddie not being safe, not being comfortable in his own boyfriend’s flat. He hates to think of Freddie getting hurt. 

He always waits for Freddie to come back home, fearing the worst, fearing one day he might not come back. He’s his best friend, the guy who drank halfway to death with him and then cuddled him all night long after getting home. He’s the guy who faked some accent just to get Roger a shag. He’s the guy who laughed with him to tears at two in the morning while playing Scrabble; nothing made sense, there was no reason to laugh, but Freddie was there and it feels a good enough reason for this memory to be one of his bests. 

“Promise me you’ll stop talking to him,” Roger whispers.

He holds Freddie even tighter when he answers with a slow nod. It’s accompanied by a sob, but Roger doesn’t let go, lets him cry for a little while. He doesn’t know if that’s what best friends usually do, but he doesn’t mind it being what he and Freddie do. He’d jump in front of a train for him, he’d kill for him, he’d carry all the heavy burdens Freddie keeps carrying for him if he could. Because he loves him. In what way, he doesn’t know- but he knows he loves him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s chapter 2! I was planning on waiting longer to post it, but I don’t have any patience...

There’s very few things Roger wouldn’t dare to do with Freddie. They did everything together already, doing everything best friends could ever do, though they still haven’t had their matching tattoos yet. But there’s just a few things he never thought he would want to do, things he wouldn’t have ever thought about doing with Freddie. 

Sharing a kiss is one of them. Mind you, Roger’s kissed Freddie and Freddie’s kissed Roger many times, on the cheek, in a platonic way. Freddie’s always loved contact, craved hugs and even just small gestures, shoulders touching during a movie, or playing with each other’s hair out of boredom. 

Roger’s never kissed a guy, actually. It’s not like he’s never thought about it, he’s just never had the occasion, the person, the moment. So it is only logic that, after having their faces inches away from one another, Roger kissed Freddie. Not a small peck on the lips, not a sweet long kiss on the cheek, not an either comforting or playful kiss on the forehead; a long, passionate, sweet kiss on the lips. He felt Freddie’s gasp against his lips, then Freddie kept the kiss going, put his hand on Roger’s neck, and accepted the embrace happily. 

But then, Roger couldn’t help but think. If they ever become a thing, it would be complicated. They’d either have to hide, or tell the world. What would his mum think? What would his sister think? What would Brian and John think? Would it break up the band? 

There’s no way it would end well. 

  
  
  


_ “He kissed you? God, was he fucking drunk?” _

  
  
  


“I don’t— I don’t think I can do this.”

Roger’s voice is raw with emotion when they pull away, when he pulls away. He hates himself when looking at Freddie's face fall, at the shy smile he wore seconds ago disappearing. He blinks a few times, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly, like he’s trying to figure out what to say, like he’s not sure if he should talk. He closes his eyes for a few seconds. Roger notices, his heart aching, the tears that stick to Freddie’s lashes, but before he can say anything, tell Freddie why, why he’s saying this after kissing him with such love- Freddie gets up, taking two painful steps backwards and looking at Roger with red rimmed eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Freddie says, walking away when the words have come out. He hopes Roger hasn’t noticed the tears that run down his cheeks, no matter how hard he tried to cover them. It would be horrible if Roger told him he didn’t mean it, only because he noticed how heartbroken Freddie felt. 

He knew, he knew it was too good to be true. He knew it wouldn’t last when Roger pressed his lips against his. But he didn’t expect it to last less than a minute; he didn’t expect Roger to realise he could never love Freddie just after their kiss ended. He probably didn’t feel the spark Freddie did feel, the spark he thought someone else had finally felt when he noticed that Roger kept the kiss going. He was foolish, it’s Roger, of course Roger doesn’t love him, not any more than anyone else does. 

Instead of slamming his door shut, like he usually does, he closes it quietly. He doesn’t want Roger to know just how hurt he is, he doesn’t want him to think he’s desperate. He is, but Roger doesn’t need to know. He has fallen for him: deeply, embarrassingly so. It’s stupid how much he’s hung up over him. If Roger ever knows, he won’t ever want him near him again. He already regrets the kiss. He probably realised, after kissing Freddie, that none of this is natural, that none of this is right. 

He’ll just have to deal with this alone, like he does with most things. He’ll have to keep all the crying hidden in his room, when he’s certain Roger isn’t anywhere near. He’ll just have to live as if his heart doesn’t hurt each time he looks at his best friend. 

  
  
  


_ “Come on, I love you. You know I didn’t mean to hurt you.” _

  
  
  


It’s not like Freddie feels any better than he did two weeks ago, but he’s trying. He tries to think about other things; he tries to concentrate on his music. That’s the most important thing, the music, the swirls of ink on paper, the words they form, words that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but mean so much to him; the notes on the piano, the melodies his voice can make when it’s not strained by the tears. There’s other things too, things he knows shouldn’t have been occupying himself with, things he feels guilt about every time he thinks of them, things that don’t truly make him feel any better; still, they pass the time and ease the loneliness for a minute or two. 

“I’ve gotten back with Matthew,” he tells Roger. 

Matthew, yes, the guy Freddie promised Roger he’d never see again, the guy that bruised Freddie’s mind just as much as his skin. But he’s told him he didn’t mean it, that he would never do that to him again, that he loves him so much. Why would he lie about that? 

“You promised me, Freddie,” Roger answers, frowning; he doesn’t sound mad, he sounds disappointed. 

There’s no reason he would be; they’re not together, they would never be. Roger  _ doesn’t  _ want him. 

They haven’t talked about the kiss. It’s like Roger forgot about it the next morning. It made Freddie’s heart ache to see him, smiling at him as though nothing ever happened, like he wished nothing had happened, like it was only a small slip that is better ignored. But Freddie didn’t make an effort to bring it up. Roger’s probably embarrassed about it, he didn’t want to make it worse. 

“He told me he wouldn’t hurt me. He- he told me he loves me.”

“And you believe him?” Roger asks, one eyebrow raised, like it’s something so surprising. 

Freddie huffs, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “Some people do actually fancy me, Roger.” He does hope that what he says pokes something into Roger. 

_ ‘Do they?’  _ he thinks. He tries to ignore the doubt at the back of his head. Matthew means it. He loves him, enough to not hurt him, enough to not lie to him. He told him he loves him, and he wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it. He  _ loves _ him. 

“That’s not what I’m saying, Fred. Just— be careful,” Roger responds, his face softening at the end of his sentence. 

“I’ll be fine, darling,” Freddie insists: he will be, as long as all of this is real, as long as Roger doesn’t notice the way Freddie looks at him, as long as he doesn’t end up too much for Matthew again, as long as he doesn’t end up alone again.

  
  
  


_ “You’re making me do this to you!” _

  
  
  


Roger maybe had slightly too much to drink. His steps are unsteady, his sight going blurry, a headache is already preparing itself. He just needs to go to bed, sleep it off, wake up hungover, go to sleep again and wake up okay. It always works. He’s only a few meters away from the flat anyway, he’ll be there in no time. 

He hopes Freddie hasn’t gone for the night. Roger can’t believe he let him get back with Matthew, after all the shit he’s done to him. Just like last time, Freddie disappears almost every night, barely talks to Roger, sends him a smile when he says good morning, doesn't meet his eyes anymore. Sometimes, he wishes he could be stronger, so that he could tell Freddie everything he wants to tell him, everything he feels for him, everything he loves about him, like Matthew never will. 

When Roger is barely five meters away from the flat, he notices a form, sitting on the stairs leading to the building; a form crouched over, just a shadow, as if it could disappear in a matter of seconds. It’s Freddie, Roger recognises him by the high heeled boots and the fur coat he insists on wearing every night. 

“Freddie!” Roger yells his name, he’s happy to see him. He’s missed him, missed his smiles, his jokes, his  _ darlings _ and  _ dears _ . He’s missed his personality that feels like sunshine, his sometimes quiet nature, his shy looks. He’s missed his best friend. He wishes they could talk more often. They live in the same flat, shouldn’t that make them closer?

But he’s not met with the reaction he hoped for. The man turns his head at Roger’s yell- it’s now clear that it actually is Freddie. But he doesn’t come and see him, instead, he picks up the bag he let go of when getting up to see Roger and quickly opens the flat door. 

Immediately, Roger runs after him. He trips multiple times due to his state. The door is locked just when he leans in with his arm to swing it open. He grumbles under his breath while searching for the key. His hands shake while trying to unlock the door. He barely has time to close the door behind himself to keep up with Freddie, who’s clearly trying to run away from him; Roger cannot figure out why. He doesn’t remove his shoes, just notices Freddie’s boots thrown on the floor, his coat barely hanging on the coat hanger. 

“Freddie!” Roger repeats his name; he’s feeling dizzy and Freddie’s being ridiculous. 

He’s panting when he catches his arm in his hand, just stopping him from fleeing to his room and probably ignoring him for hours. He doesn’t turn around to look at Roger, not even to yell at him for being stupid, not to explode into laughter at how childish they’re acting, running after each other. He doesn’t say a word, barely moves, just lifts up his free hand to cover his mouth. 

“Won’t you look at me?” Roger asks, softly. He wants to know what’s wrong, but Freddie shakes his head roughly. 

“Freddie, did you know that even if you don’t look at me, I can actually still see you?” He tries to lift up the mood, even if he doesn’t have an idea of what’s going on. 

There’s no reaction, “Do you want to play to hide and seek? That’s fine with me.”

Roger doesn’t have time to say any more stupid things before Freddie breaks, but it isn’t the way Roger wished he would react. He cries. Loud, despairing; it’s sudden and Roger doesn’t know how to deal with it. He slightly tugs on Freddie’s arm, making him turn around to face him. He squeezes his best friend against his body, ignoring the horrible things he feels, looking at Freddie’s eyes. One is fatigued, a large circle under it, emphasising the exhaustion. The left one is dark, swollen, painful looking. 

If he could kill Matthew, he would in a heartbeat: he would make sure Freddie doesn’t have to deal with him ever again, to deal with his violence and aggression, which Roger knows isn’t only physical, just based on how hesitant Freddie is to hug him back, like they’ve never done this before. He’s put sick words in Freddie’s head and Roger hates him for it. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Roger whispers, but he knows that it isn’t okay, that nothing feels okay at the moment. 

  
  


_ “You’re toxic. That’s why everyone leaves you.” _

  
  


Eventually, Freddie’s calm enough to let go of Roger. He still doesn’t meet his eyes, embarrassed that he let his emotions control him in front of Roger. He’s been kind enough to not mention it, to let Freddie cry in his arms like it doesn’t bother him, like it’s normal. He’s usually stronger than that, usually he has enough control on his emotions to be able to wait until Roger’s not there anymore. 

Roger insisted that he sits while he fetches him some ice for his eye and things to clean up his face. It’ll be a pain to have to clean the cut on his face when it’s so close to the bruised skin. He tries to hold back new tears when he remembers the events of a few hours before, when he remembers how frightened he had been, heartbroken, again. He wipes away forbidden tears as soon as he sees Roger, in front of him. He ignores the horrible pain when he presses too hard on his eye. It gives him an unwanted headache. 

“Sorry,” he whispers to Roger, ashamed. 

The whole situation; Freddie crying, bruised in the face, avoiding eye contact, makes Roger sober up quickly, like he’s never had anything to drink in the first place. He needs to be there for Freddie, to have his whole mind concentrated on his best friend that needs him.

Roger doesn’t respond, just brings a chair closer and sits on it. It doesn’t take long before he lifts up Freddie’s head, a ball of cotton in his other hand. Freddie barely holds a wince as his cut stings with the alcohol Roger puts on it. He knows better than to complain.

Delicately, Roger presses the frozen peas they’ve had for weeks on his eye. It hurts, but he doesn’t say anything and watches Roger looking at the bruise. After some time, Freddie takes the bag, his left cheek so incredibly cold. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Roger asks, carefully, like he knows just how vulnerable Freddie is. 

Freddie’s tried to forget, he tried to forget about what happened, what he saw, what Matthew told him, what Matthew did to him. He thought this time it would be fine, that it would be real, that Matthew meant it. He’s starting to think that maybe he’s just too much to be loved, too much for everyone. Even for Roger. 

“Matthew cheated on me,” he starts. He was happy to see him after a few days apart, happy that he’d get to be held for a little bit again. But he arrived at his flat, and found him with someone else. Someone much prettier, someone that surely is never too much. Someone that can give him so much more than he ever could. “I- I just wanted to surprise him. I missed him. But he got angry at me.” And Freddie got angry at himself, for being always so needy, for not letting Matthew get a break from him when he knows well that he’s already a lot to deal with. 

His tears are freezing on the cold plastic of the bag. He can’t look at Roger, not when he knows he’s probably fucking things up with him too, at this very moment. 

“He said it’s my fault, and I- I know it is—“

“Freddie,” Roger says quietly, with no anger or hate, but Freddie doesn’t feel comforted.

“No, I- I know it’s true. I’m always t- too much. And then he- he- he got tired of me being there and he- well he did- h- he did that.” Freddie’s voice dies down, exhausted. He spent so much time thinking about the events over and over again on the steps of the flat, not daring to go in, not daring to face Roger. He doesn’t have any energy anymore, no will to fight against exhaustion. He’s just tired, as much in his head as his body is. He needs to sleep, forget about his troubles, ignore Roger and act as if he didn’t ruin everything again. 

Roger brings him into a hug; out of pity, Freddie is sure of it. He’s always been a kind soul, always there for everyone, even Freddie when he was being ridiculous. But Freddie still holds onto the back of his shirt. He’s already ruined their friendship, there’s nothing left to lose. 

“I always fuck everything up,” Freddie croaks, his throat closing off. He doesn’t think about what he’s doing, but he knows he’ll have the time to regret all of his words when he’s alone in his bedroom. 

“That’s not true,” Roger protests, but Freddie senses the false note to his words. He’s crying again, and he hates how ridiculously he’s acting when he feels dampness on Roger’s shirt, the mess he’s making. He’ll just have to deal with the pain of losing this too later. One day, even if it’s in years, he’ll be used to the pain, to the point where it won’t even hurt anymore. 

Today is not the day. 

  
  


_ “As if anyone would want someone like you.” _

  
  


“I should leave you alone,” Freddie says, pulling away from the comforting warmth of Roger’s arms. “You didn’t come home to have to deal with me.” He smiles, like his face isn’t covered in tear tracks; he even laughs, as if he’s trying to prove something to Roger, maybe that he’s just being silly. Silly Freddie, sobbing like a kid because he’s realised he can’t be loved. 

“I don’t mind it, I miss you,” Roger answers and Freddie’s newly built facade almost falters. “I miss spending time with you, even like this. You haven’t been around much lately.”

Freddie feels instantly guilty, because he’s been avoiding going to the flat as much as possible: he’s been avoiding Roger. He thought it’d be best, that if Roger didn’t have time to talk to him, then maybe he wouldn’t get the chance to tell him to leave, or maybe to tell him he regretted the kiss. Freddie’s heart had also grown too heavy, listening to Roger inviting girls over. No matter how loud he put his music, how tight he pulled his covers over his head, he couldn’t ignore it. So he decided it was better to go to someone who loved him, or at least could learn to love him. He just never thought Roger could want him at the flat, he knew Matthew probably didn’t want him over, but he would have gotten tired of him anyway, no matter what Freddie did. 

“I didn’t think you’d want me here.”

Freddie doesn’t like how vulnerable he sounds, so he tries to joke, doing his best to make it sound funny. “I mean,  _ I _ wouldn’t want  _ me _ here.”

Roger doesn’t laugh and Freddie understands he’s said too much this time. “Don’t say that,” he answers firmly, but Freddie doesn’t think he truly knows from how deep the words come from, that maybe he shouldn’t only not say things like that, but that he shouldn’t think them either. Because there’s so many things he’s never said out loud that are so much more awful. 

Sometimes, times like these, Freddie lets himself talk, explain, say too much. It’s probably because he’s still a bit dizzy from the pain, or because Roger is looking at him like he  _ can  _ talk, like he can explain without fucking things up, like he means enough to Roger to not have to worry about every of his words. 

“I hate myself,” he whispers before the anger takes over. “I hate myself,” he repeats, but with much more power. He looks up at Roger, fire in his eyes, painful, burning heat in his heart. He’s got a strange fascination with seeing people’s expressions turn into disgust after he starts saying awful things. He’s good at bringing out the bad in people, at making people’s hands turn into closed fists, at making people say words they never thought they’d ever say to anyone. He’s good at saying the right thing that could set off anyone, at taking just one step too far. 

“I ruin everything good.” His own hands turn into a fist, his black painted nails digging into the bruised skin of his palm, digging in the marks made there only hours ago. He deserves the pain, he deserves it all. 

Roger opens his mouth to speak, but Freddie won’t let him. He doesn’t want to hear it. 

“Fre—“

“Stop- stop it. It’s the truth. I’ve ruined every relationship I’ve ever had, every friendship I’ve ever had.” He’s not tripping on one word, he’s thought the words so many times in his head—wanting to say them out loud time after time—that he now knows them by heart. “I always—“

“You haven’t ruined ours.”

“What?”

“You haven’t ruined our friendship,” Roger insists. He feels sick when looking at Freddie’s expression darken: his mouth turns into a smile that is nowhere near happy, his jaw tightens significantly, his eyes get filled with an anger that Roger understands is only directed at himself. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. You won’t look at me the same way since I kissed you.”

Freddie has no idea where his sudden honesty comes from. It’s probably the fact that his night can’t possibly turn out worse than it is at the moment. He’s dealt with Roger’s rejection once, another time won’t change anything. 

“ _ I _ kissed you, Freddie.”

“But I’m the one who can’t get over it,” Freddie retorts, the confident set of his jaw falters and for a moment he feels tears prickling at his eyes again. “I’m the one who’s too fucking clingy to get over that stupid kiss that didn’t mean  _ anything _ to you.” 

He bows his head down when tears start falling. Dread washes over him when Roger takes his cheek in his hand. “I don’t want you to pity me,” he whispers hoarsely. 

“I’m not pitying you. I’m not—I love you.” Roger keeps going even though he feels Freddie flinch at his words. “I love you, Freddie, but I was just too scared to own up to it. I was scared of the consequences, of what it would mean. And I promise that if you want to kiss me this time, I won’t push you away again.”

He takes a break, waiting for Freddie to react, but when he doesn’t, he keeps going. 

“You’re the most caring and generous person I’ve ever met. You’re the most perfect and beautiful person there is,” Roger frowns when Freddie shakes his head lightly in disbelief. “I know you don’t believe me for now, but I’m not lying. I’d never lie to you about that. I love you, so much more than you could ever imagine.”

It takes a moment, but Freddie finally lifts his head up and, risking his heart again, he kisses Roger. And like that, Roger’s lips make him forget what he was crying about in the first place. He lets Roger bring him into a tight and affectionate hug. 

Roger will make sure Freddie understands his worth and just how much he means to him. 

  
  


_ “Come on, look at yourself, you’re a mess.” _

_ And you’re just a sad and lonely man who will never deserve me.  _

  
  


Thinking back on it, Freddie wishes he’d found the right words at the right moment, that he’d said those words and believed them. 

He does now, buried in Roger’s arms in the bed they started sharing months ago. 

He deserves all the happiness Roger brings him. 


End file.
